And Every Morning the Way Home Gets Longer and Longer

by Fredrik Backman

“Why are you holding my hand so tight, Grandpa?” the boy whispers again. “Because all of this is disappearing, Noahnoah. And I want to keep hold of you longest of all.” The boy nods. Holds his grandpa’s hand tighter in return.

Grandma’s things are still everywhere. The boy carefully touches the lump on Grandpa’s forehead. “Does it hurt?” he asks. “No, not really,” Grandpa replies. “I mean on the inside. Does it hurt on the inside?” “It hurts less and less. That’s one good thing about forgetting things. You forget the things that hurt too.” “What does it feel like?” “Like constantly searching for something in your pockets. First you lose the small things, then it’s the big ones. It starts with keys and ends with people.” “Are you scared?” “A bit. Are you?” “A bit,” the boy admits. Grandpa grins.

“But the universe gave you both Noah. He’s the bridge between you. That’s why we get the chance to spoil our grandchildren, because by doing that we’re apologizing to our children.”

“Don’t forget to put more stones under the anchor. And ask Ted about the guitar.” “It’s too late now.” She laughs inside his brain then. “Darling obstinate you. It’s never too late to ask your son about something he loves.” Then the rain starts to fall, and the last thing he shouts to her is that he also hopes he’s wrong. Dearly, dearly, dearly hopes. That she’ll argue with him in Heaven.

“We just need to be careful, does that make sense? With your grandpa. His brain . . . the thing is, Noah, sometimes it’s going to be working slower than we’re used to. Slower than Grandpa is used to.” “Yeah. The way home’s getting longer and longer every morning now.” The father squats down and hugs him. “My wonderful smart little boy. The amount I love you, Noah, the sky will never be that big.” “What can we do to help Grandpa?”

The dad’s tears dry on the boy’s sweatshirt. “We can walk down the road with him. We can keep him company.” They take the lift down to the hospital parking lot, walk hand in hand toward the car. Fetch the green tent.

Space sings outside the hospital room; Ted plays guitar; Grandpa hums along. It’s a big universe to be angry at but a long life to have company in. Noah strokes his daughter’s hair; the girl turns toward him in the sleeping bag without waking up. She doesn’t like mathematics, she prefers words and instruments like her grandpa. It won’t be long before her feet touch the ground. They sleep in a row, the tent smells like hyacinths, and there’s nothing to be afraid of.